Beyond Mars Crimson Fleet (13 page)

It was a
sound concept for its day, but changing times diminished their
military importance and value. In this age of progressing
technology and advanced warships,
The
Guardians
were regulated to the boredom of
monitoring system traffic and cargo inspection duties. Long gone
was the belief that they were cornerstones of Earth's defenses.
Because of this, their once highly trained crews settled into an
atmosphere of apathy and morass. This gave the stations a fatal
flaw, one that the Martians meant to exploit.

* * * * *

Captain
Tonelli, the commanding officer of
Guardian
One
, grumbled beneath his breath as he
leisurely dressed himself in his tan uniform. A portly man of well
over six feet in height, his large frame struggled to fit into his
standard issue clothing, which seemed somewhat smaller in
size.

In years past, Tonelli was
a very capable and handsome officer, but a near-fatal leg wound
suffered during combat became a roadblock to his military career.
He was removed from frontline duty and placed out-to-pasture here
as reward for his heroics. Gone was his ability to achieve any
further promotions or recognition, which soured his taste for his
military career as he watched his life slowly pass by as others
moved on.

Over many years of
commanding this outpost, his once strong muscles were replaced by
fat while his jet-black hair turned to a grayish white. Ambition
was lost to boredom, jealousy, and self-pity. Now old and
disgruntled, he was too close to retirement to care about anything
else.

Being roused out of bed
during the middle of his sleep period reminded him of his desired
departure from the military. However, the purported emergency that
was urgently reported to him by the duty officer, although vague in
detail, was still his responsibility to answer.

After tying his boots and
strapping on his ion pistol, the captain exited his room and
hobbled down several corridors to a shuttle car entrance. After
Tonelli causally boarded a car, the shuttle vehicle started off
through a plastic and transparent tube to the command
center.

Unknown
to Tonelli, however, events were rapidly developing. At the same
time, a trash container ship maneuvered to dock with
Guardian One
. The aging
hulk’s visit was a matter of routine that was scheduled weeks
earlier by the maintenance chief. As the old ship anchored herself
into position and began the exchange of empty garbage containers
for the filled ones from the space station, it was later realized
that the maintenance chief above all else was a
Martian.

As Tonelli reached the
command center, he was perplexed by the frantic activity. Every
system was activated, and every position, including the redundant
ones, manned. Throughout the center, the PA blared loudly over the
crewmen’s voices. The audio faded in and out and was at times
completely masked by static noise, but it was clear in what was
happening; a pitch space battle was being fought somewhere in the
solar system.

Tonelli then spotted a
short ugly man standing by the communication console. This was
Lieutenant Feldman, a recent transfer, who had a pug face, bug
eyes, and a perpetual sneer. However, the man was most efficient in
his duties and served currently as the shift’s duty
officer.

Upon seeing Feldman,
Tonelli rushed over and grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell is
going on!” he demanded to know.

Feldman gazed back unmoved
by his superior officer’s emotional outburst. “Sorry to disturb
your sleep, Sir,” the man sounded sarcastic, “but it seems that the
Martian fleet has gone berserk and is shooting up the solar
system.”

“What?” Tonelli was
appalled. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Sir,” Feldman
confirmed. “Apparently, they’re attacking one of our reserve
fleets. That’s what’s coming over the PA now. They’ve probably
destroyed all the communications satellites in Mars’ orbit and it
looks like they’re trying to jam all outbound signals as
well.”

Tonelli’s mouth dropped
open. The shock of the news stunned his mind and jumbled his
thoughts. Then panic gripped the officer as a sudden realization
came over him. “If they’re trying to leave the system, then—they’re
probably headed here!”

“More than likely,” calmly
stated Feldman. “That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of bringing both
stations up to Defense Condition 1. If we see so much as one of
their garbage scowls, we’ll blast it into particles.” he
boasted.

* * * * *

Gunnery Sergeant Stephan
Gagarin, a tall, solemn, and daring man with steel blue eyes,
climbed steadily up a refuse shaft that connected to one of the
“empty” garbage containers they were transported in. He continually
scanned the shaft with his night vision gear as he carefully and
quietly advanced, for the lives of his marines depended on
it.

As
always, this Martian Marine “lifer” had volunteered to be
the
pointman
for
this operation. Totally hidden in his gray camouflage uniform, body
armor, and black combat equipment, he was all business as he led
two platoons of Martian Marines in their part of the initial
assault on
Guardian One
.

Like
every other marine, he carried a heavy load of assorted weapons on
his web gear, backpack, and person. His personal arsenal consisted
of a standard bayonet on the left side of his web belt, a
K-bar
knife that hung from
his combat vest, and a throwing knife strapped to the rear of his
right thigh. Several concussion and smoke grenades were tucked in
half pockets around his combat vest as well. An ion pistol, which
could discharge a burst of electrons to either stun or kill, was
holstered on his right side. Plastic explosives in the form of
shape charges, a medical kit, and a day’s worth of MRE’s were
stored in his pack along with extra rifle ammunition and 50 feet of
scaling rope.

His primary weapon, a
plasma rifle, was slung across his back. It was a scaled-down
version of a fighter’s cannons, which bore a striking resemblance
to a M16 Rifle of the Vietnam War. However, it was by far more
lethal. The two gases needed for the plasma bullets was each fed
from small adjacent canisters built into each magazine, and ignited
by the magazine’s electrodes by its encased battery to make the
rifle operate. The weapon was capable of discharging 70 plasma
bullets, each traveling at 2800 feet per second, before needing
another magazine for reloading.

However,
even with all of this equipment, the climb was not as hard as
expected, since the maintenance chief
had
somehow neutralized all artificial gravity within the shafts.
Gagarin’s total load was near weightless instead of the 150 pounds
it would have been on the Earth. This greatly aided the marines and
kept them on schedule. But the marine sergeant didn’t particular
like climbing a shaft that was used for transporting human waste as
well as other byproducts. His gloves became soiled and gooey with
the excrement and discarded toilet paper as he reached the top of
the conduit, and he imagined what he smelled
like.

At a collection point a
little ways on, normal gravity resume and Gagarin waited in the
darkness for both platoons to reassemble. It wasn’t long before the
last marines appeared. These were Captain Benson and his team of
specialized technicians. They were to be protected at all costs,
for the burden of running the jump gate and station systems fell
upon their shoulders. Without them, the collapse of the Martian bid
for freedom was assured.

To the sergeant, the
objectives were clear: his platoon’s taking of the security room
while the other would hit the command center. But the experienced
space soldier felt uneasy about the new lieutenant who was to
“help” direct the attack on the security room. He was a stick of an
officer, fresh out of the academy. Big on theory and little on
ability, the fledgling officer was hungry for medals. Gagarin hoped
that the “college boy’s” ambition wouldn’t get a lot of them
killed.

Indeed, Gagarin went to great lengths to guarantee
that did not happen. He directly petitioned Colonel Lon, the
Commandant of the Martian Marine Corps, and made a case for the
lieutenant to be kept to the rear. The colonel, however, was set
against it. The man was “green” and needed the experience. Yet, Lon
conceded that he would order the young officer to participate, but
not to lead. To Gagarin, the concession was acceptable from the
colonel whose judgment and words he trusted.

With a few hand gestures,
Gagarin divided the small force into two groups. The marines
brought their weapons up, held at the ready with stone-cold eyes
fixed down the scopes of each rifle. In single file, they began
moving to their respective jump off points.

* * * * *

In front
of the trash-flow monitors of
Guardian
One,
sat a big burly man chewing on a
cigar. Maintenance Chief Albert Webley rubbed his shaved head as he
monitored the progress of each group of Martian Marines as they
departed the trash containers. In all, there were about four
hundred marines making the climb through eight shafts. The marines’
assault was scheduled to begin in five minutes.

Webley counted himself
lucky so far. The secret modifications he had made over the last
two years were only activated as the container ship docked. This
left little to chance. The question now posed was of security
discovering that the pressure and gravity of the shafts were
neutralized before the marines attacked. Webley continued to chew
on his cigar, squeezing out its bitter juices as he nervously
waited and watched.

* * * * *

Reaching the final
waypoint, Sergeant Gagarin spotted a small beacon that was placed
on the roof of the shaft by Webley. He immediately typed “AG-145”
into his wrist’s Personal Data Computer. With a sudden burst of
flame around the beacon, a brilliant circle was burned. The shaft’s
metal groaned as it was easily cut loose by the pyrotechnics. The
piece of shaft then severed and dropped quickly to the floor with a
large clang.

The
marines rushed forward to the opening and aided one another
upwards. As the last of them disappeared into the hole, the final
phase in the storming of
Guardian
One
began.

* * * * *

Captain Tonelli grew very
fidgety and fearful as the sounds of battle abruptly vanished from
the communications network. Without another word, he deserted
Feldman, defaulting command to the junior officer. An attack was
almost certainly imminent on both stations, and Tonelli’s only
thought was to race for the safety of the security room. Even
though he passed many armed guards along the way, he felt that
being barricaded in the station’s most protected area was the
wisest choice to keep his life.

His legs spurted in great
strides, as his boot “clopped” heavily on the grated steel floor
plates. However, as he neared the entrance to the security room,
Tonelli’s steps slowed. He saw the corridor broaden into a wide
lobby with a large rounded desk. Two mounted track-guns then came
into view. The Gattling Gun lasers slowly rotated in sweeping, but
menacing arcs.

A security sergeant,
accompanied by a dozen heavily armed guards in black uniforms,
stood in front of the security’s room hatch. At the moment,
however, they were busily engaged in inspecting some unknown cargo
in huge plastic containers that was being transported on motorized
carts into the secured chamber.

Tonelli’s mouth became an
anxious smile, as sanctuary grew to no more than a few yards away.
It was perfect timing. The guards were finished with their
inspection and the thick hatch began to sluggishly part open to
allow the cargo carts access into the compartment. The hatch’s
powerful motor vibrated the steel deck with a rumbling that was
very loud. Its awesome quake gave the officer renewed hope while
calming his fears. Yes, he thought, the security room made the
perfect haven from the impending storm.

Without any warning,
however, a violent white flash of light accompanied by a deafening
“boom” and a burst of roasting heat over-powered the Earth
officer’s senses. Tonelli found himself thrown backwards as the
floor in front of him disintegrated. His body became uncontrollable
and jerked from invisible projectiles impaling him as he flew to
the ground. The small missiles penetrated him with searing pain and
sharp stabs that stole the very breath out of his lungs.

The pang of hurt racked his
body as he landed hard on the deck, but the agony was slowly traded
for a cold numbness that radiated inwards from his arms and legs.
He also felt a warm, sticky wetness all over as well as a
difficulty in breathing. The man finally realized—he was
dying.

His torso was pierced and
shredded by shards of shattered deck plates that also broke many of
his bones. This made any movement tormenting. But as life left him,
he became an unwilling witness to his command’s
destruction.